Pith
by LovelyLivy
Summary: The first time he kissed her she'd tasted of spice and smelled of fresh pomegranate, and later he can't decide if it's the memory or the loss that hurts more. He settles for buttoning his overcoat with shaky fingers, and praying twice a day. AU colored. T/Z.


**This came from the prompt on Tumblr- 'T/Z, the movie 'Up', Angst.' Enjoy, lovelies. Reviews are my spirit food. :)**

**-Alivia**

**Disclaimed.**

* * *

The first time he kissed her she'd tasted of spice and smelled of fresh pomegranate, and later he can't decide if it's the memory or the loss that hurts more.

He settles for buttoning his overcoat with shaky fingers, and praying twice a day.

OoO

He'd always thought she'd look lovely in white, and she had. Lightly, as not to bustle his tubing too much, her arm had been linked into Gibbs'.

And it was her, and just _her- _for in that moment stars could combust, Abby could say she was a lesbian, and it would not matter. Vaguely, he was aware of the passing of hands, the startling warmth of her fingers entwined in his own.

Perfect; home.

There were words, and more words. _Do you, Anthony DiNozzo-_

_I do._

_OoO_

"I would quite enjoy spending every anniversary in Paris," she tells him, matter of fact, all white teeth and ebony curls. The city runs around them, seated in metal chairs at a small café. The small café that, too many years ago they had sat in while waiting for a witness, and a plane. "We can do that," he promises her.

Nostalgia is light on her tongue. The honeymoon was an early rendition to heaven.

OoO

Gibbs dies, and he gives the eulogy, and they cling to one another so tight that night he can hardly tell where she ends and he begins. She sobs into his chest, muttering words in other languages, words of passing, words of anger in deities and gods and whatever there is to hope for.

Faith withers in the wind, eroding to the facts.

OoO

And then there is a plus sign, pretty and pink. Restoring, glowing, burning incandescently in the tunnels.

OoO

Ziva David had never been an extraordinarily tolerant woman, so it's unlikely the circumstances would deter her intake any. The paint's container had distinctly advertised _ocean breeze, _yet, to her utter dismay, once slapped upon the pale walls of their bedroom, had dried positively _teal. _

She wondered, briefly, when she had been reduced to worrying over such trivial things as the color of the walls.

Ah, yes.

Since she'd been put on _maternity leave. _

"Zeev," he calmed her, gently probing her hand from the brush that was wet with color. In her rage, she'd been holding it so tightly her knuckles were white.

"Ziva," Tony said. "I'll fix this."

OoO

"Do you think Gibbs knows?" she had asked him once, lips probing at a spot behind his ear. He'd held her tighter, and smiled against her skin. It had been a painful gesture. His heart had thumped roughly in his chest.

Laced with bittersweet, were his words.

"Gibbs knows everything, Ziva."

Even six feet under, he knows Boss knows.

OoO

The light of the bathroom was painful for his eyes, sickeningly bright, and by the way it flickered every thirty seconds or so, he guessed the bulb would need to be changed soon.

Tony's eyes were wet. They stayed trained upon her form, swaying a little, the greening hue of her skin taking a nail and jabbing it into his heart muscle.

"Tony, what do we do?"

He didn't know if it was rhetorical, wasn't even sure if she was referring to the baby, the blood in the toilet, or the whole damn thing in general- how do they _do _this.

Ziva had always struggled with the idea of family, of normalcy, of having foundations impossible to tear at with arsenals of weapons and war, and this would do nothing to assuage that fear.

He tried; he really, really tried, to make it better for her.

"I need to take you to the emergency room." _I think_, was there, but unspoken.

It was painfully evident, within the ripping shreds of his flesh, within the pounding in his head, in the twisting in his being, that he was still quite new to this. They were still new to heartbreak, and facing it together.

OoO

He brushes his hands through her hair systematically, and hums a little. She must take comfort in the action, or she would have told him to stop already.

They're scheduling her for surgery.

"Tony," Ziva catches him with her eyes, brown and desperate.

"Tony, I know it may not mean-

She grasps for words. "I know that it is all semantics now, but I had wanted to name him after Gibbs."

And his heart mangles a little further, piece by piece, gnarling into a crippled glob he can't really figure out how to stick a bandage on. If a bandage would even work.

OoO

The doctors tell them it would likely happen with other pregnancies.

Faith diminishes.

OoO

Spring blooms anew, and does funny, but humorless things to perspective.

"We could adopt," Tony suggests, cradling her to him one morning.

"Or," Ziva starts, "We could travel."

He's always wanted to please her more than anything, whether it be phone sex, killing boyfriends, or telling her they'll get the monster in the end.

Please her, he does.

OoO

They save up more than a few paychecks for Europe, and they plan to spend at least a month there.

Then he gets shot in the leg, and priorities change. Medical bills are a pity.

OoO

Years pass, and before they know it Probie is turning fifty and NCIS is but a fading thrum of what it once was. New technology invented, varying directors.

He and Ziva share a piece of cake, and his wife smiles pointedly at Abby's daughter, almost thirteen years old. Age grays the hair at her temple, streaking it fondly.

"You would not believe it, love, but your mother used to wear spiked collars."

OoO

Aching kneecaps. Yellow bottles with white twist lids.

"Tony, I love you."

OoO

His going away party is overwhelmingly sweet, and even though he hasn't worked with half the people in years, they still come; they still bid him good luck.

Ziva resigns two weeks after he retires, and NCIS is etched into stone.

OoO

They arrive on a hazy day in October, and the ocean hisses in their disagreeing ears. Ziva's hand is unbelievably soft and weathered in his own. The bench is hard on her back, but that's okay.

She leans her head against his shoulder, relishes in the soft cries of birds, and cherishes.

OoO

She was always meant to go before him.

He knows this.

He knows this, but losing her still guts him, and suddenly years, lifetimes, ages, will never be enough time. She is priceless, she is his, and her being gone is not something he wants to face when he wakes up in the morning. The lines at his eyes weigh down a thousand tons, and disappearing has never been a more treasured option.

OoO

He lives, tucked into woolen coats, branding that slight smirk, still cracking movie references no one knows, but live he does.

OoO

A young girl sits beside him on the shuttle one day, her eyes are expressive and lively, and he's reminded of love.

"Sir, I know this is really weird to ask a total stranger, but where are you going?"

His smile is positively shit eating, and he feels younger.

"Home."

OoO

The tide sings in his ear, a thumb gracing the rough bench, pondering what has been.

He still aches at the thought of her.

But sometimes, he remembers kisses that tasted of spice, movie references, McGeek, long nights, endless banter, and forgotten rules. They are but a dream.

The ache recedes with the crashing waves, and so he sits.

Ziva had once told him that the people you love never really leave you.


End file.
